by Lisa Freeman
It sounded awful. The sun was baking into my back, but I knew better than to move.
“How could they flash a packed Sunday crowd and live?” I asked Mary Jo.
“That’s a good question,” she said patting my shoulder. “After a few seconds, I heard a hoot coming from the water. I flipped back the curtains of the van to see Jerry Richmond waving both his arms over his head. I mean, that guy is so mellow he barely talks so to see him all excited was, like, a really big deal. The roar that followed sounded like a Who concert when the lights go out.
“Surfers piled up and paddled out so fast, making so much noise, the bikers at Neptune’s Net, who were still drinking from the night before, came charging across PCH, probably thinking they’d get to see something cool like a dead surfer or beached whale. So, you know what happened next?”
I shook my head no, keeping my posture tall and straight.
Mary Jo continued, “Every surfer from San Diego to Swami’s and all the way past Rincon heard about the call Rox and Claire made, and from that day on, they became the gnarliest girls to ever walk the beach.”
With that, Mary Jo took a slight bow. Of course, I applauded as she finished the story.
“Rox and Claire never bragged about what locals called The Baja Banquet. Surfers just decided they were lucky charms and that changed their status forever.”
Mary Jo told me about girls foolish enough to try and talk to Rox or Claire. Seemed they would freeze the girls out. They’d stand there, not talking, with their arms crossed and little smiles on their faces. If the girls tried to break the ice, they’d just stare at them harder, happy to know they could freak chicks out and get a tan at the same time.
“You know, I really hate them,” Mary Jo said. She stood up, staring at the ocean, swaying with the tide. I settled back down on my towel, trying to look normal and relaxed; I rolled over onto one side and rested my head in the palm of my hand, waiting.
“Do you want to meet them?” she asked.
I wanted to say “Hell no” and start swimming home to Oahu, but instead I said, “For sure.”
Mary Jo’s arms loosened and her shoulders rolled in. I could tell she was relieved.
“Great. Stop by tomorrow,” she said as she started jogging in place.
I could see the muscles in her calves flex. She must have been really good at volleyball because even drunk she could sail on top of the sand. I wanted to ask her what time, but I knew it was a lame question so I just smiled. She started jogging backwards. “Make sure you have something for Lord Ricky,” she said, pointing her finger at me. Before I could ask, she turned and yelled back over her shoulder, “He guards State’s entrance. And watch out for the gargoyles that work for him.”
She waved. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell them you’re coming,” she said and started to jog away. Then she came back once more to tell me, “Oh yeah, Suzie and Jenni are best friends, Aries and Libra. And KC sits on the last towel, Aquarius.”
And with that she plowed down the beach once and for all.
Leos always had an agenda but it didn’t matter. I really liked Mary Jo. I waited until the lineup had packed up and left before I headed home. I had to shave my legs, arms, and my underarms. Most importantly, I had to write Annie and tell her what had just happened. She was going to be stoked.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bad Cow
I could tell Mom was home from work. I heard that obnoxious song, “American Pie,” blasting out the kitchen window. I hated it when my mom used my record player. She already ruined the needle, picking it up and slamming it down, listening to Don McLean’s song over and over. What kind of an idiot writes a song about a bunch of people dying? The lyrics always got stuck in my head. This is the day that I die—you die, we die, my dad dies. “This’ll be the day that I die,” was the exact quote. It was all the same to me but not for my mom. She believed the song had a secret message about Jesus’s resurrection, and she was determined to decode it.
I could also tell, from the smell of grated orange peels, chopped nuts, and butter, that she was baking the cookies she always made. I didn’t have to see my mother to know she’d be wearing a floral muumuu patio dress with the deep side pockets filled with used tissues and a pack of Benson & Hedges. Underneath, she’d have on Lollipop white panties with a control top waist and crossover bra with a double back hook. She’d be barefoot or wearing ballet slippers, and if she had already showered, she would have an ugly orange scarf covering up the curlers in her hair. I walked through the door ready for the stink of Aqua Net and cheap white wine. I slowed down to enjoy my last minutes of freedom and took a few deep breaths of fresh air. Mom didn’t believe in astrology. She thought it was stupid and superstitious. I had to rely on moment-to-moment observations to make sense of her, even though she was a Virgo like me.
My mom used to look like the photo of Yvette Mimieux on the cover of LIFE magazine. I saved that October 1963 issue because inside it showed pictures of her—Yvette, not my mother, learning how to surf. My mom looked so much like her that people used to stop and ask her for an autograph. Dad thought that was hot. He loved blondes and said he and my mom were like sweet and sour, yin and yang. He always said opposites attract. Those were in the good old days when she went tide pooling and rafting with me. When she used to sit on a little chair next to my bed if I was sick, comb my hair a hundred times at night, and sing along with The Mamas & The Papas. But now that she was a widow, everything had changed.
In Hawaii, she and Dad did their own thing, but they’d always come together at the bar. She would supervise the hostesses and name all the drinks. Dad would do the hiring and firing, and I would be responsible for picking out the fish and naming them all. Everybody got along back then. When Mom got too serious, Dad would always find a way to make her laugh.
As I walked up to our new house, I remembered where I was; my stomach turned. Mom peered at me like I was a science project that had just grown mold. She signaled for me to use the garden path, which wasn’t really a path—just a bunch of uneven cement slabs on a hillside of overgrown vines, succulent plants, donkey tails, ferns, and gnarled bougainvillea. Mom’s garden was one of the highlights of our new home at 33 Sage Street, which was more an alley than a street and was buried deep in the Santa Monica Canyon below white adobe homes on a winding road called Amalfi Drive.
My mom chose 33 Sage for us to start a new life because she thought it was the greatest house in the world and just the place where Dad would want us to be. I think she wanted off the rock, a.k.a. Hawaii, and back on the clock. Mom was excited to be living on the mainland again.
There was hamburger meat on the counter next to an open box of Rice-A-Roni, an MJB coffee can with some bacon grease, Tabasco sauce, and a bunch of stained recipes. Mom walked toward me with a tray of freshly baked nut cookies. Her upper lip curled as she said, “Your favorite,” shoving the biggest one in my mouth.
That was her way of trying to shut me up and stop a fight before it started. But I wasn’t interested in a fight right then. The only thing that interested me was meeting Rox and Claire and there was no way I was going to tell my mother that.
Two new fake mahogany plastic TV trays were set up in front of the old Zenith.
“Those are cool,” I said.
“Dinner will be at six.” The way Mom said it was as if she was saying, “See, everything is just as it was before Dad’s heart attack.” But it wasn’t.
I closed the bathroom door, stuck a towel in my mouth, and screamed. If only I had a brother or sister, I thought, it wouldn’t be so terrible. At least I’d have somebody to talk to about what was going on. But I only had a “bad cow” to lean on. That’s what my mom called herself when she couldn’t make breast milk or have another child. I swear to God she told anyone who would listen that she was a “bad cow.” What a freak.
Seeing those TV trays, I finally got the picture. I was living with an android: a nonhuman Stepford Mom who floated through life as if my dead fat
her was on a fishing trip or something. From the top of her blonde hair to her manicured toenails, my mother had been transformed by Miltown prescriptions and white wine into a person I didn’t recognize, didn’t like, and who I will refer to as Jean from now on.
CHAPTER EIGHT
33 Sage
The bathroom at 33 Sage Street has a nauseating smell left by the old lady who used to live here. She kept all kinds of stuff under the sink like her cat’s litter box, talcum powder, and Vicks VapoRub. Combined with the toxic fumes from three layers of paint applied by Jean, the smell was enough to make me want to use the hose to shower outside.
The paint was a creamy color that Jean thought was a great accent for the black and pink tiles. She had taken down the blinds and put up lacy curtains to make the bathroom more feminine. She also put in a no-slip white vinyl floor to make the tiny room look bigger and a heater to make it warmer.
Dad hated pink. I missed him so much and wished I could hear his voice or see him one more time. I dreamed of when we hiked the far side of Diamond Head. I liked to think he was still there with his biceps as round as coconuts, his deep voice, and his face reeking of Alpine aftershave. He’d be wearing his favorite Sandy Beach tank top and “sleepahs.” The gap between his front teeth was just like mine, and his long salt-and-pepper hair made him look like his hero, Duke Kahanamoku, who was such a great surfer and Olympic swimmer he was known as The Human Fish. Duke Kahanamoku was super good-looking and so was my dad with his wide, flat nose and cool sideburns.
Our hiking time was special. When we were on the trail, he opened up and told me all about spirituality. His thick eyebrows arched up when he talked about Kumulipo, the creation chant.
“Everything happened after darkness,” he said. “And a bunch of gods came to earth with light.”
Stuff like that. It was so boss. He was so proud of our heritage.
Dad also showed me how to barbeque Spam, shop at the swap meet in Pearl City, roll super-tight joints for his morning toke, and most importantly, how to be silent so I could hear the wind and listen to what the ancestors said. I never actually heard them talk but my dad said they were there and that was good enough for me.
It was obvious that Dad was a Taurus by the sound of his voice. It was like sweet music. He was the kind of guy that stuck to his routine. Every day he got up at 10:00 a.m., had his protein drink and a joint, went for a swim, got a poi or a fish taco, and then went to the Java Jones. Tauruses are earth signs; they have deep roots connected to the places they live and the family they love. My dad also cared about the people he worked with. But mostly he was a really easygoing guy who just liked to sit in the sun at the beach for hours.
Dad loved pakalolo, and since we had a little house on lots of land in Kaimuki, he grew the pot in our backyard. There was so much of it he could pick it from the kitchen window. We had no screens so geckos came inside. I wanted them as pets but that made Jean crazy. Dad actually had to put up an electric “lizard zapper” to calm her down. She’d rather hear them sizzle than see them leisurely cruise around the house. That’s the kind of person I live with.
I didn’t want to think about Jean. I needed to get ready for my big day tomorrow. I covered my face with Noxzema and, just to be safe, covered it with Clearasil right afterward. My hair had to be perfectly straight and my skin had to be pimple free. For good luck, I rubbed my rabbit foot and dabbed the gardenia oil Annie gave me under my feet, around each toenail, and behind my ears. I wasn’t about to leave a single beauty tip unturned.
Jean’s loud knock startled me.
“Do you want cheese on your burger?” she shouted.
“No thanks,” I said.
“Well, hurry up in there. It’s almost six.”
Jean was worried I’d miss the news about Nixon and the Watergate breakin. I swear she cared more about Nixon than me and really only wanted me there so she had someone to talk to. Jean loved to talk, especially about my going to Smith someday just like Julie Nixon. God forbid I ended up selling hot dogs at the North Shore like some crazed island girl or worse, getting married to a Moke who lived in the back woods. In the old days, whalers called big Hawaiian men who couldn’t speak English Moke. It’s not a nice word, and I hated it when Jean used it to try and act cool. That just made me spit.
My room was the worst part of 33 Sage. It had floral wallpaper, a pegboard, and a built-in plastic desktop that Jean called, “the hobby area.” Like I had a friggin’ hobby. There were two small windows with lacy curtains that Jean bought at Henshey’s Department Store, a door to the bathroom, and a mattress directly in the middle of the room. Jean had unpacked and placed everything just where she thought it should be, including a wooden cross, a picture of Jesus with bloody palms opened to the sky, and a rosary right in the middle of my wall. I hated the place from top to bottom. The only good thing was that I could hear the ocean at night, and that made it easy for me to drift off to sleep.
Jean’s dream was to live in a house with wall-to-wall shag carpeting. She had the floors at 33 Sage covered in mallard green shag. She chose that color because she saw in a celebrity magazine that Jack Lord had it in his Kahala condominium and she wanted just what that haole geek with the bad toupee had. How lame was that? It was just one more thing that made the entire house look awful and like we had lived in it for years.
Jean’s room was once the den. She painted it god-awful mauve. She was crazy for these bifolding shutter closet doors. She had two panel mirrors installed so she could make sure her nursing uniform didn’t show a panty line. The sliding glass doors led to the overgrown ravine, which she referred to as “her garden.” Outside, there was a clothesline and white wicker chairs with paint chipping off and a hibachi. Although she had big plans for the place, it was a mess.
In the living room, there were a couple of bookshelves filled with Jean’s paperbacks. Jonathan Livingston Seagull and Valley of the Dolls were jammed between seashells she picked up over the years. When I was younger, instead of sucking my thumb, I used to stick my tongue in her cowry shells and lick the pink tinges with deep folds. The thick, solid shells had wavy notches that opened into rippled panels. Sometimes I would lick them until my mouth went raw. Weird as it was, those shells were my thing.
Jean loved the living room’s fireplace. It was warm, but I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to be starting fires after downing four or five tumblers of wine. On the mantel there was a framed picture of me on Dad’s shoulders on Easter Sunday when I was four. I was wearing a cardigan over a polka-dot skirt with a silk bow on the side. He was wearing red and white floral trunks. Next to it was the wedding picture of Jean and my dad barefoot in a tuxedo when they were madly in love. Dad’s ultimate favorite photo was of me getting hugged by Duke Kahanamoku, grinning ear to ear in front of his surfboards on the beach at Waikiki.
By the time I walked into the kitchen, Jean was taking our plates to the new TV trays. She had painted the whole kitchen blue and white to match her treasured Poppytrail dishes. Everything in that kitchen for serving food—from the salt and pepper shakers and the creamer to the sugar bowl and the gravy boat—was Poppytrail. The design was of little blue Dutch girls and boys under windmills. The place felt like a Poppytrail gift store. But oddly enough those dishes were the only things that made 33 Sage feel like home.
I ate dinner wearing my flannel nightgown, Hawaii State sweatshirt with the hood over my head, and thermal socks.
“You look like you’re ready for snow,” Jean laughed.
“It’s freezing,” I said.
From the Zenith, Walter Cronkite’s familiar voice belted out, “Good Evening.”
I couldn’t have cared less what he said, and I wasn’t about to have a pointless conversation with Jean about the climate in Santa Monica. I stuffed a spoonful of Green Giant corn into my mouth and wondered if Dad ever ate off of this plate.
CHAPTER NINE
Uncle Mike
I had to focus and get a good night’s sleep. If I
screwed up my first meeting with the lineup, I’d live alone in surf purgatory for the rest of my life.
One big problem was that Mary Jo never said what time I should stop by. If I showed up too early, they’d definitely think I was uncool. And for sure I’d blow it if I showed up too late. That would look like I didn’t care.
I had to be prepared with answers to every question they could throw my way. If they asked who my favorite movie stars were I’d tell them Ali MacGraw, Robert Redford, and Paul Newman. If they asked, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was my favorite movie. Those were perfect answers because they were safe.
Actually, my favorite movie was Barbarella with Jane Fonda. When I was eleven, Uncle Mike had a private screening of it at his house. My folks thought I was asleep on the lanai but I saw the whole movie. Barbarella screwed an angel, played in sexy machines, and went to a dream chamber. That’s where the Great Tyrant, Anita Pallenberg, sort of “did it” with Jane Fonda. That was my favorite part. The Tyrant was so hot. I wanted an eye patch like her to act all “pretty pretty” someday.
I could watch Barbarella every night, but telling that to the lineup was way too risky. Especially since Anita P. was my role model. That chick was slick, totally tough and ready to whip her way to the top, like me. Like I said, back home, girls who “did it” with girls were called Funny Kines. I don’t think Funny Kines are creepy like gym teachers, nuns, or Joan Baez. To me, Funny Kines are beautiful like Barbarella.
The phone rang. Jean shot me a look like I knew who was calling so late. Be serious, I thought. I don’t have any friends in California.
“Well, it’s not for me,” I said. Jean picked up the receiver.